


The Toothpick Maker

by soraflye (flitterfly5)



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Light-Hearted, M/M, Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 20:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5979904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flitterfly5/pseuds/soraflye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s two months before the most critical election of the decade, and political journalist Matsumoto cannot believe that his new boss is sending him off to a village in the middle of nowhere to write a feature on a toothpick craftsman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I am not affiliated with Arashi or any person mentioned in this story.
> 
> Previously posted on LJ.
> 
> Because Ohno made toothpicks on an episode of Shiyagare last year ^.^

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Are you trying to demote me or something? This is a joke, right?”  
  
Matsumoto Jun slammed a piece of paper onto his boss’s desk, a few hairs on his elaborate coif quivering violently as they strayed messily over his forehead. His boss, a neat-looking man who had just been about to start snacking on a plate of juicy pineapple cubes, looked up.  
  
“Have a seat, Jun-kun.” He motioned to a chair and offered him a dainty fork. “Pineapple?”  
  
“No, thank you,” growled Jun. “I came only for a clarification of my new assignment, _Sakurai-san._ ”  
  
If Sakurai Sho heard the sarcastic sneer in his subordinate’s voice, he didn’t show it. Instead, he popped a pineapple cube into his mouth and leaned forward to inspect the paper Jun had just thrust at him.  
  
“Oh, that.” He munched happily and reached for a glass of water. “Don’t worry, it’s not a joke, and I’m not demoting you either. It’s just come to my attention that maybe our publication needs a little more… humanity, you know?” He cast a look at Jun, and ignored the thunder of all hell concentrated on those thick, murderous brows. “What better way to bring that out than an in-depth examination of the virtues underlying our traditional Japanese arts?”  
  
“You’re sending me off to some village in the middle of nowhere for two entire weeks to interview a _toothpick-maker_ ,” said Jun through gritted teeth. “I know you’re new, Sakurai-san, so I’ll forgive you for being unfamiliar with how things work around here, but I’ll make you aware right now that that I am a writer of _politics_. I do breaking news, scoops, and editorials, waves upon waves of well-directed, analytical editorials on the highest level of this nation’s government, which by the way are consistently among the top-hits on our website. Our readers rely on _my_ political acumen to navigate the current legislative climate, and with only two months to go before what might be the most critical election of the decade, I want to make it absolutely clear that you will _not_ be sending me off to some bamboo hut where people still need driftwood for cooking rice! Send Aiba to do that, if you’re so concerned about the dying art of Japanese toothpicks, not me!”  
  
Unimpressed, Sakurai pushed aside his pineapple plate and steepled his fingers, a somewhat amused expression in his round, affable eyes.  
  
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head apologetically. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Jun-kun. You see, I’ve already assigned Aiba-kun to cover the Tokyo campaign, and he’s just turned in an excellent draft on the implications of the lowered voting age. Hmm… I guess it’s easy to forget that _his_ articles have also consistently been among our top-hits, isn’t it, Jun-kun?”  
  
Jun was seething red now. He stood up, inwardly cursing at the president for hiring such an idiotic new editor to be his boss and shot Sakurai a look of pure venom.  
  
“Aiba writes like a giggly five year old about milking cows and combing puppies,” he spat. “Our readers will make a laughingstock out of you when they find out you’ve assigned him to the campaign.”  
  
“I think I can judge Aiba-kun’s writing just fine.” Sakurai smiled, but for the first time, it held a hint of warning. “Yours, too, Jun-kun. I’ll be expecting the highest standards of journalism in your upcoming feature with the Ohno’s. Make sure you take plenty of pictures of the craftsmen in action!”  
  
Sakurai popped another pineapple cube into his mouth, still smiling as Jun stormed out of his office.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The shinkansen could only take him so far, and Jun was appalled to find that three and a half hours on the train represented only a small portion of the time he would be spending on his road out of civilization. There was a local tram that took him to a town, and then two buses that he only just managed to miss which were supposed to take him to the village, and when he finally got there, all he found was a small boy with unnaturally fair skin standing by two bicycles under a tree.  
  
“You’ve got to be kidding me…” he groaned, as the boy jumped forth eagerly, calling his name. “Yes, I’m Matsumoto Jun. Nice to meet you. Now please tell me we’re within walking distance of the Ohno’s.”  
  
“Ninomiya Kazunari, at your service!” The boy flashed him a grin, looking almost cute as he shaded his eyes with a pudgy hand. “I work for Ohno-san, and I grew up with Satoshi, who I suppose you’ll be interacting with the most. He’s the only son of Ohno-san,” he added, when he caught Jun’s look of confusion.  
  
“I know who Ohno Satoshi is,” Jun snapped, irked at the implication that he hadn’t done his homework beforehand. “I just thought he was supposed to be older, like in his thirties.”  
  
“Oh, but he is!” The boy laughed, and it was only then that Jun noticed the gentle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “He’s thirty-five already, Matsumoto-san, and I’m thirty-two myself.”  
  
“How interesting.” Perhaps if he wasn’t about to melt in the heat and get stung to death by gnats, he’d be more inclined to appreciate this Ninomiya’s youthful appearance, but as it was, Jun had more important things on his mind.  
  
“How far away is the Ohno residence?” he asked stiffly, not liking the way Ninomiya was cheerfully loading his bags onto the back of one of the bicycles. “Will we have to bike there?”  
  
“Yes, it’s about a half hour away by bike, and we’re lucky the roads aren’t too muddy today. I can carry most of Matsumoto-san’s bags if you’re feeling tired from your travels. Here, let me take that for you…”  
  
“No, thank you.” Jun clutched his Dior Couture bag closer to his waist and shot the man a glare that would’ve curdled milk, but Ninomiya simply cocked his head to one side, clicked his tongue and went back to fastening ropes around the bag he had already loaded onto a bike.  
  
“…I wonder why they didn’t send Aiba this time…” Jun heard him muttering as he worked. He almost snorted out loud at that. This Ninomiya, like all country bumpkins, probably didn’t know how much more qualified he was than that idiotic Aiba. After all, Jun was a graduate of a top-tier university with two advanced degrees to his name: a master’s each in communications and political science, while Aiba Masaki was nothing but a college dropout who Sakurai’s predecessor had hired in a moment of weakness, probably out of pity, Jun thought derisively.  
  
They biked across dry dirt roads, in between precarious planks that separated one rice field from another, and all the way through a massive bamboo forest before Ninomiya hit the brakes in front of a small bamboo house with the characters “Ohno” hanging from its gate. They both slid off their bicycles, and Ninomiya gave him a brief bow before unlatching the fence and bowing again invitingly.  
  
“This is it?” Jun asked, keeping his tone to very polite disgust. What he saw in front of him did not look like the kind of place that would have wi-fi, and he had been secretly counting on getting a news feed from one of his Tokyo contacts to keep up with the campaign.  
  
So much for staying up to date.  
  
He kicked his shoes off in mild annoyance and ducked through the low-hanging door. Behind him, Ninomiya hastened to find slippers for his feet, all the while calling out in a piercing voice, “We’re home, Satoshi! I’ve brought our guest home!”  
  
“Sorry, Matsumoto-san.” The boyish-looking man gave Jun an apologetic bow when no one answered. “I’m sure Satoshi will be here to welcome you shortly. He can just get rather absorbed in his craft sometimes, you know? And there are times when he forgets to even eat! Seriously, if I wasn’t around, our Satoshi would probably have starved to death more than once.” He chuckled indulgently, and then scurried off with another bow, presumably to find his airheaded employer.  
  
“They could have at least had the courtesy to book me a hotel…” Jun muttered darkly as he eyed a small cricket climbing its way around what looked like a hand-drawn calendar hanging on the wall. “This place doesn’t even have air conditioning…”  
  
He looked around the room distastefully. A rack of fishing poles, a cabinet of strange little African figures, notebooks and photo albums stuffed into a bookcase, and on the only table, a domed plastic net shielding a plate of leftover lunch from the bugs in the air. He wrinkled his nose slightly, disapproving of the mayonnaise that was clearly dumped in copious servings in the dish.  
  
So much for that low-fat diet.  
  
“Does something displease you?”  
  
A soft voice came from behind him, mild, unperturbed and with a humming quality that blended smoothly into the buzz of insects in the background.  
  
Jun whipped around. The speaker was a small man, with cropped, sun-streaked hair and a languid look that matched his humming voice. He had an apron on, which was dotted loosely with specks of sawdust, and also a cap, which was really just a piece of cloth tied around his temples. Tucked behind one ear, Jun noticed a small chisel, and in a shallow sliver of exposed chest, there was a crude seashell pendant hanging from a length of knotted rope. It dangled down as the man bowed in greeting, and Jun couldn’t help but notice how fluidly he moved, or how his bare feet made no noise on the worn tatami.  
  
This had to be Satoshi.  
  
Jun bowed in return, reddening slightly when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“I was just, uh, talking to myself,” he stuttered. “ I’m sorry, you must be Ohno-san—”  
  
Ohno Satoshi handed him a painted paper fan.  
  
“Please don’t call me ‘Ohno-san.’ That’s reserved for my father.”  He walked over to where Ninomiya had left Jun’s bags by the door and picked them up wordlessly. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”  
  
“Thank you, Ohno—er, Satoshi-san.”  
  
Ohno smiled at him, and hummed an absent acknowledgment. Jun decided that this was not a man who was very fond of talking.  
  
That night, Jun lay in his room with an uncomfortably thin futon pressed underneath him. The rest of the day had been uneventful, and after showing him to his room, his quiet host had spoken to him only to excuse himself before slouching back to his workshop, his noiseless feet still unshod as he stepped into the hall. Jun had hesitated, wondering whether or not he should assume his journalistic duties and follow the man into his toothpick crafting workplace, but something about his short interaction with Ohno told him that it might be better to wait until the next morning. Despite the gentle smile and placid voice, Jun had gotten the feeling that Ohno Satoshi was a man who liked to be left alone.  
  
He fiddled with the painted fan Ohno had given him earlier and held it up to his eyes curiously.  Not bad for these country bumpkins, he thought, turning it over and examining the strokes of ink on paper. Ninomiya had seen to most of his needs after Ohno had left him, and unlike his “Satoshi,” Ninomiya was quite talkative. He told Jun that Ohno liked to paint, and often painted little fans or cloths for the nurses who looked after his father. Of course, before his father’s illness, he used to go out into town a lot more, and _then_ it was more than just the nurses who enjoyed these little niceties. “Satoshi” (Jun could still not get used to the slightly simpering way Ninomiya pronounced his employer’s name) was apparently the kind of guy who would scribble happily on anything that was thrust in his face, and anything he scribbled usually ended up being odd and misshapen but strangely intricate and comforting to look at. Ninomiya had grinned lightly when Jun raised a brow at that. “Don’t worry!” He had laughed, patting him (rather presumptuously, Jun thought) on his shoulder. “Satoshi’s transparent, but no one’d ever say he was easy to figure out!”  
  
Naturally, that statement had only confused Jun more. Not that he cared, really. He threw the fan away and turned on his side, nettled. What was it to him if Ohno Satoshi went around scribbling on all the villagers’ fans and tablecloths and wallpapers, anyways?  
  
“He makes _toothpicks_ for a living,” Jun muttered, giving his pillow an annoyed bump to fluff it up.  
  
Hopefully, this frivolous project would be over in about three days and he’d be able to sneak back to Tokyo without getting too far behind the game. Sakurai would thank him later when deadlines approached and Aiba had only peppy gossip on the candidates’ differing views of animal fashion.  
  
“Why do I always have to be the bigger person?”  
  
With a click of his tongue, he wiggled irritably until he found a tolerable position on this blasted wooden floor, closed his eyes and slept.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	2. Chapter 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The next morning, Jun woke up to the leakage of bright morning sun from the cracks in unfamiliar blue curtains.  
  
“Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.”  
  
A soft hand tickled the bottom of his foot, and he jerked up in a mess of thin blankets with an undignified shriek.  
  
“Who the hell—? Get away from me!” He kicked out, uncombed bangs flopping messily over his blurry morning vision. The world still felt a little woozy, and a panicky chill was running down his back as he realized that someone was currently hovering over him like a murky shadow.  
  
The shadow chuckled. “You’re not much of a beauty in the morning, Matsumoto-san.” A folded towel and set of slippers was placed gently by his side. “Maybe a bath will restore some of the color to your skin.”  
  
Jun rubbed the last traces of sleep from his eyes and blinked accusingly at the mischievously grinning man above him.  
  
“Good morning, Ninomiya-san,” he greeted in a tone of ice. In response, the man only grinned wider.  
  
“Oh please make it Nino.” He tossed him a shower cap and laughed when it hit his chest. “I’ve been instructed to provide you breakfast, so go freshen up now and we’ll eat in the main hall.”  
  
Jun frowned, but decided to forgive the presumptuous tone.  
  
“Where’s Ohno-san?” he asked instead.  
  
Nino shrugged. “Workshop, probably. He usually gets up around dawn to water the bamboos, and then goes straight to the workshop to start whittling. Though sometimes, he’ll stay in the forest for hours if he feels like it. I’ve had to go hunt him down for lunch a few times.” He chuckled fondly. “Satoshi always looks lost, even though he knows these woods like the back of his hand.”  
  
There it was again, Jun thought, irked. That casual intimacy in Ninomiya’s voice whenever he mentioned his employer. That fond intonation in the name “Satoshi.” It made his heart contract sourly into his chest.  
  
When was the last time _he_ had called anyone by their given name? Actually, come to think of it, when was the last time _anyone_ had called anyone by given name these days?  
  
“Thank you, Nino.”  
  
Stiffly, Jun took the towel, slippers and stalked off to the bathroom. The walls were thin, he found, and the bathroom itself opened up to the greenery of the bamboo forest, with the soft hum of insects and light shuffling of wind in leaves surrounding them. There was a trickle from a decorated koi pond in one corner of the bath yard, and facing it was a tatami-sized tub made entirely of grey stone. It was covered neatly with a wooden plank.  
  
Hesitantly, he uncovered it, revealing an aromatic bath that Nino had undoubtedly prepared fresh that morning, the _private_ kind that would normally cost a good 5000 yen back in the city.  
  
“Amazing,” he breathed, his morning crankiness momentarily forgotten. “Now all I need is a good masseuse.”  
  
He let his robe fall to the ground and sank in, feeling the warmth envelope his overworked joints like a pool of sweet honey. Around him, the bamboos rustled languidly, and it wasn’t long before he found himself humming an absent melody from his childhood as his head lolled against the cool stone edge.  
  
“Tekuteku hhmm-mmm-mm, michi wo yuku… doko hmm-mm-hmm-mmm, michi na no ka…”  
  
A cool breeze passed, raking up a trail of goosebumps on his exposed arms, and instinctively, the melody trailed off. Something was suddenly blocking the sun’s gentleness from his eyes, and he could feel the stillness of another presence in the yard.  
  
A silent, _inquisitive_ presence.  
  
Jun’s eyes snapped open just as Ohno Satoshi was turning to leave.  
  
“Hey, please, stay!”  
  
There was a little splash as both his hands disturbed the water in their haste to cover his mouth in shock. What on earth had just made him blurt something like _that_ out? Jun’s face was bright pink, and grew even pinker when he saw Ohno turning back slowly to stare at him. The man was wearing his work apron, though unlike the previous day, there was no shirt underneath, and through the morning air Jun could pick up the faint scent of fresh-cut bamboo clinging to that bare chest. It was obvious that he had been looking forward to a bath, and that he hadn’t expected his private tub to be occupied at this hour. Nervously, Jun pulled his wet towel closer to his body.  
  
“I’m just about done here,” he clarified breathlessly. “You can have your bath back.”  
  
Ohno tilted his head and looked at him questioningly.  
  
“I mean, this-this is your private tub, isn’t it?” Jun didn’t know why his throat seemed to be clamping down on itself with Ohno’s eyes on him like that. “Nino said I could use it…”  
  
“I don’t have a private tub.” Ohno finally spoke, his voice absently even. “I usually share the common one with Kazu. This is just where I keep my fish.”  
  
“Fish?” Jun almost jumped out of the water. Uneasily, he re-examined the stone tub. God, but that Nino was going to have hell to pay if he found so much as a single bloody fish scale in the water. It wasn’t fishing season, but just the thought of those slimy, smelly things having once occupied the same space as him was enough to turn his gut. He glared back at Ohno, as if this was all his fault.  
  
“What are you doing here, then?” he demanded. _And why do you share a tub with Nino?_  
  
Ohno gave a short little laugh, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
“To keep my guest company, of course, Matsumoto-san.” He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Though you were looking so peaceful singing to yourself in the water, I didn't know if I should disturb you. Do you mind if I join?”  
  
Dumbfounded, Jun could do nothing but nod and gape, a new current of warmth coursing around him as the toothpick maker slid into the tub with a sigh of content. With all his clothes removed, Ohno Satoshi was an extraordinarily fine figure of a man, his body lean, his muscles knitted, and his boyishly cut hair damp across a dripping brow. For a while, they bathed in silence, Ohno splashing himself with a wooden pail as Jun rather self-consciously dabbed at his own shoulders and neck, trying hard not to stare. It was most definitely not the kind of cleansing ritual he was used to! He dipped his body lower into the water, shivering despite the warmth.  
  
_Too close_ , he thought, inexplicably nervous. This tub was too small. He couldn’t remember when he had last been so close to another man. _We’re almost skin to skin._  
  
“So what is it that you want to know about toothpicks?”  
  
Jun almost jumped out of his skin when he felt the gentle rub of a wet towel on his back. Behind him Ohno chuckled, seemingly amused at his surprise.  
  
“You’re the great award-winning journalist Aiba-chan always talks about, aren’t you?” The soft towel never left his back, running up and down in a soothing scrub. “I didn’t expect you to be so nervous.”  
  
“I’m not!” Jun retorted immediately, turning around to glare into Ohno’s mild eyes. “I just—I don’t like being touched from behind...”  
  
He pressed his back against the tub wall, away from the other man. His skin was tingling against the hard stone, strangely missing the soft touch of those craftman’s hands, but his heart was pounding, as it often did when he felt too close, too bare, too… tender. God, but he really shouldn’t have come to this hut in the woods! _Damn Sakurai…_  
  
Ohno merely chuckled again, unperturbed, and held his towel out to Jun.  
  
“Your turn.”  
  
The twinkle in his eye made it difficult to refuse. Reluctantly, Jun obliged.  
  
“Ahh…” Ohno let out a sigh of satisfaction, closing his eyes and turning his back to him. He hunched over as he relaxed, and Jun could not help but think how much like an old geezer he looked, sitting there half-submerged in the water, with the tattered old sea shell hanging off his neck and a half-obliterated tan line running across his collar circle.  
  
“Let me know if I’m scrubbing too hard,” he muttered pinkly.  
  
“Mmm…” Ohno hummed, and rested his chin against his knees.  
  
They didn’t speak for the rest of the bath.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Over the next two days, Jun wrote extensively on the art of toothpick making. He would wake up, check his phone for news of the election in Tokyo, and then grumble through breakfast with Ninomiya. He kept telling himself that the sooner he churned out an article, the sooner he could sneak back to Tokyo and get a few extra scoops about the sleazy politician line-up they had this year.  
  
Ninomiya, he found, was a surprisingly witty person to talk to when it came to politics. Not that he could ever understand the inner workings of the government as well as Jun, naturally, but unlike his reclusive master, he went into town almost every day to fetch the papers (and squander a few coins at the local arcade, Jun suspected), and he seemed to have a natural cynicism about the world outside of the village. It made him quite a natural at political commentary. Grudgingly, Jun had to admit that he appreciated the conversation. It kept him sharp, conversing with someone like Nino. Occasionally, there'd even be a few phrases of such brilliant snark that he actually considered putting them into his next article.  
  
“So how’s the novel?” Nino laughed as he grabbed a piece of melon bread off Jun’s plate. The guy was really getting way too familiar with him these days, Jun thought, but outwardly he only grunted in reply.  
  
“You know, for someone who hasn’t spent much time with Satoshi, you’re writing an awful lot on toothpicks,” Nino observed mildly, now taking a sip out of Jun’s coffee.  
  
“I thought you were supposed to serve me breakfast, not eat off my plate.” Jun snatched back his mug and swiped at Nino’s back. “Your boss would want you to take better care of his guests.”  
  
Nino just chuckled. “If you’re going to invoke Satoshi on me, you should at least spend more than just one steamy bath with him.”  
  
There was a knowing glint in his eye that sent a bloom of red across Jun’s cheeks. So Nino had noticed. It was true, he supposed, he _had_ been avoiding Ohno ever since that first day. He couldn’t really even put his finger on why. It wasn’t like the bath they shared had been unpleasant; on the contrary, he’d rather enjoyed lathering his towel down the back of his host and watching the droplets roll down the glowing skin. It was like time had slowed in the humming of the bamboo forest, and there was nothing left in the world but him and the man in front of him. Jun found himself almost marveling inside at the fine musculature (yet such modest posture!) and the sustained stillness (but for that secret neck pulse!). He even let Ohno massage him after, because the man had such pretty hands and as his sleepy eyes peered eagerly through the dark wet bangs, Jun just couldn’t find it in his heart to refuse the offer.  
  
“Hey, cat got your tongue?”  
  
Nino was smirking as he blatantly helped himself to a spoonful of Jun’s natto.  
  
Jun could only pray that he’d finish that article soon enough and get the hell out of this village.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	3. Chapter 3

In the safety of his workshop, Ohno Satoshi was feeling adventurous. A pair of heavy duty cutting shears was laid out on his workboard and fresh bamboo shavings littered the floor around his feet like sawdust. There were piles and piles of toothpicks, some finer, some thicker, some just lying around and some already packed into neat little boxes by a small clanking robot in the corner of the room. But the toothpick craftman’s attention was hardly on the wares that were going to the vendors and grocers in the village the next day; in this particular moment, the honeyed eyes of Ohno Satoshi were focused entirely on an object he held against one leg. Long and thin, it still retained the shape of the bamboo it came from, though the base was cut diagonally over the cross section, and a small mouthpiece had been fashioned to fit upon the opening. The top had not yet been truncated, and a few stray leaves would rustle against the floor whenever it was rotated or shifted. Along its body, Ohno had drilled a few holes, perfect and round, each one separated by a measured distance. One could still see the penciled ruler markings in between them.  
  
_This is going to be the perfect birthday present_ , he smiled, feeling a little giddy. Carving things always made him a little giddy. _Nino’s going to love it._  
  
Which probably meant that he would snort at it and rebuke him for wasting time on unprofitable endeavors. But Ohno kept smiling as he chiseled away. He knew that despite the snorts, Nino kept every one of his handmade birthday presents, all twenty-five of them. They had been friends for a very long time, after all.  
  
Nino never had any presents for him, but Ohno didn’t mind. He’d never say it out loud, but he kind of thought Nino was like a pet kitten, clever and voracious and very good at purring. Who’d expect cats to remember people’s birthdays, anyway? He supposed it probably had something to do with the fact Nino never had parents growing up. The tsunami twenty-five years ago had swept them away, and for a good month, ten-year-old Ohno had hidden his feisty friend in his bedroom so he could escape being put in an orphanage.  
  
Ah, how he remembered the thrill of those days! He would sneak onigiris into his pockets and take extra-long baths so Nino could wash with him. He even saved up his pocket money and bought a little nightlight because Nino kept raging in his sleep. Nino would curl up around him most nights, demanding his warmth like a petulant kitten, and together they’d sleep until Ohno had to get up for school.  
  
_This would really suit him._ Ohno Satoshi gave a chuckle as he chiseled out the final piece of bamboo. Nothing had really changed since then. He squinted thoughtfully as he dusted off some loose shavings. At the end of each day, they would still soak together in the same little tub, with Nino following him back to sleep in that same room they shared as children.  
  
He paused, for some reason feeling just a little bit uneasy at the thought. _Two grown men, rubbing each other’s backs and sleeping in the same bed?_ It had always felt perfectly natural before, and neither of his parents had ever turned a sideways eye at it, but somehow, for the past couple of days, ever since, hmm… was it ever since that bath with that visiting journalist? Why yes, he supposed that was it. It fit. The way Matsumoto had blushed and flared and then gone back to stammering as he gently massaged away the tense knots in those shoulders. He supposed it probably affected him somewhat. Other men had always found him attractive, even _desirable_ , he knew, but he had to admit that that short bath in his fish tub was probably the first time he’d found himself actively relishing those thoughts. Yes, probably. He scratched his nose.  
  
_I guess that means Matsumoto-san’s attracted to me._ He wiped the sharp edge of his chisel and waited patiently for his heart to stop beating so fast.  
  
The product was now ready for glazing. Pushing his thoughts aside, Ohno held the new-formed bamboo flute to his face and peered intently down its length with one eye. With a thin brush, he coated its surface with a sweet-smelling resin, taking care to add an extra dab on the head of the mouthpiece. Nino had always had a bit of a sweet tooth, after all. With a little tut of satisfaction, he held it out, admiring the now-complete bamboo flute.  
  
When the time came, Nino would undoubtedly grumble about how his toothpicks weren’t properly packed or how resin was getting more expensive, but those were just unique synonyms for “thank you,” Ohno knew.  
  
Something caught his eye as he carefully placed it on the drying rack, some bright red scribble on his calendar. Frowning, he leaned closer to get a better look.  
  
_Vent Day 100._ He read in his own handwriting. _Time to pull the plug._  
  
It was marked the day after Nino’s birthday. His brow furrowed more and didn’t clear as he cleaned up and withdrew from his workshop.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
“I can’t believe this!”  
  
Matsumoto Jun swore as he flung a used towel onto the floor by his futon. His phone was squeezed viciously between a bare shoulder and a raging red ear, and it was taking all his self-control not to burst into expletives as he listened to the tinny voice from the speaker.  
  
“What do you mean, _‘it’s not engaging enough?’_ ” he hissed into the mouthpiece. “I spent four damn days working on that article! For fuck’s sake, Sakurai, the topic was _toothpicks_! If you wanted a Pulitzer, you should’ve picked a better subject.”  
  
“Be honest, Matsumoto-kun, have you even set foot in Satoshi-kun’s studio?”  
  
“No, but I—” Jun froze for a split second, the familiar use of that name catching him off guard. “‘Satoshi-kun?’” he echoed incredulously, all resentment temporarily forgotten. “You _know_ him?”  
  
“We’ve met before,” Sakurai replied with infuriating vagueness before switching back to business. “You know, I think you just need a bit more time, Matsumoto. Don’t get me wrong, the draft you sent me wasn’t bad; it just seemed a little too analytical. It could use more of a _personal_ dimension, if you know what I mean…”  
  
“There is nothing _personal_ about toothpicks!” Jun’s temple was beginning to throb again. He had spent so much time researching every aspect of the toothpick market on the painfully slow internet and come up with what any other boss would have called a miraculously engaging piece. Sakurai’s attitude was making his temper rise, but he gritted his teeth and decided to play the adult. “Listen, Sakurai-san, Election Day is only three weeks away. You can’t possibly be suggesting that I stay in this village any longer! You _need_ me. Trust me, both you and Aiba are going to thank me for it later.”  
  
“For the good of our publication, an extended stay is _exactly_ what I’m suggesting,” Sakurai retorted smoothly. “And just so you know, our politics page has just reached a new record for hits thanks to Aiba-kun’s new commentary column.”  
  
“What?!” Now, _that_ was a punch in the gut. Jun fumed as they ended the call, Sakurai reminding him again to look for a “personal” angle.  
  
“ _‘Personal,’_ I’ll show him _personal_ …” he muttered darkly, flipping his covers open and once again cursing the lack of a proper bed. He had already been off his isometric routine for a whole week, and these hardwood floors were really testing his back muscles.  
  
A quiet cough came from behind the sliding screen, “ _Um,_ hello?”  
  
And Jun’s already-prominent eyes widened as a sleeveless, apron-clad and very confused-looking Ohno stepped into his bedroom.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Ohno Satoshi was not the kind of guy who liked to eavesdrop for fun. He didn’t stand behind doors or spread newspapers in front of his face or feign sleep in secluded areas where people hatched plots and quarreled. He didn’t even pay attention to that kind of stuff when it happened out in the open (and sometimes, as Nino would laughingly point out, when it was directed at him, even).  
  
But tonight was different. Tonight, he had just been on his way to join Nino in bed when a slightly raised voice travelled down the hall from the direction of the guest room, and like a moth to a flame, he had turned. Nino was already sleeping peacefully, he reasoned, and it wasn’t the season for night terrors anyways.  Ohno Satoshi might have been known as a recluse, but he was by no mean antisocial, and besides, Matsumoto Jun was attracted to him, wasn’t he?  
  
He had only meant to pop his head in and ask if his guest needed anything (and perhaps also to verify Nino’s whiny claim that there were five different hairbrushes and twelve types of moisturizers sitting on the vanity table), but somehow, his feet stopped just one step away from the door where the angry voice now came out discernably, the words of resent simmering assiduously in the summer heat. A quiver of doubt pierced him, and Ohno found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move a step further.  
  
“I don’t get why you’re so hell-bent on making me stay.” Matsumoto was pacing around the room. Ohno could see the shadow on the screen moving impatiently. “I’m a political journalist, and he’s a _toothpick maker_. Four days is already more than what anyone should be spending on a project like this—and _no_ , I _don’t_ think we need a one-on-one interview...”  
  
The tirade continued, but Ohno wasn’t really listening anymore. His normally clear brow was furrowed, and a hot uncomfortable feeling was eating away at the blank peace he was so used to breathing. Of course, he’d never flattered himself that the journalist was any more than indifferently tolerant of his house or his profession, but he’d thought (or perhaps it was more like he _hoped_ ) that Matsumoto had harbored at least some feelings of warmth towards him as a _man_. Men who were completely indifferent did not take such efforts to hide after seeing him naked, after all.  
  
Confused, Ohno cocked his head to one side. He had been so used to hiding himself, he supposed he must have forgotten what it was like to be on the other end. Comee to think of it, how long had it been since he’d felt this eager to spend time with someone other than Nino?  
  
_A lifetime ago_. _Perhaps never._  
  
A lingering memory crept up the cisterns of his mind—deadened eyes, twitchy limbs—but he quashed it before it could resurface completely. Some things you just can’t change, he reminded himself. Unconsciously, he smoothed a crease out of his apron. On the other side, Matsumoto had fallen silent, the angle of that brow so sullen that he could almost see it marring the shadowy profile on the screen door.  
  
Even in two-dimensional monochrome, Matsumoto Jun’s vexation radiated from his body _unequivocally_.  
  
And for a moment, Ohno couldn’t help but marvel at it, the daring contours, the chiseled lines. The artist within him itched to touch, to feel, to replicate that intimacy of massaging the unblemished skin shoulder to waist. But the man in him held back, still wounded by a vague sense of miscalculation.  
  
Curse the dust! Something in his throat was suddenly itching, and he couldn’t control it—he had to cough. _Ahem, ahem!_ He hadn’t felt this mortified since Nino made him sing _Yoitoko_ in front of their entire seventh grade class.  
  
The muttering lips on the shadow froze, the head whipping around to interrogate the screen that separated them.  
  
Ohno heaved a sigh. Perhaps this was a sign from the dust mites of his house. Perhaps he was just meant to be perpetually caught spying on his beguiling guest.  
  
“Um, hello?”  
  
Squaring his shoulders, he slid open the screen.  
  
Matsumoto stared back at him, eyes wide and shoulders tensed under a thin tank top still wet from the shower. Despite his earlier self-assurance on the phone, he seemed intractably tongue-tied and his upper teeth were biting one piece of lip so hard that Ohno was sure he was already tasting blood. But there was no annoyance, no accusation, in fact, not even a vestige of the resentment he’d heard a few minutes ago. Ohno blinked, somewhat taken aback.  
  
“Ohno—ah—Sa-Satoshi-san?”  
  
Matsumoto twitched, as if unsure how to address him. A beautiful red flush was draining fast from those cheeks and Ohno shivered, a strange giddiness taking over his body again. It had never even crossed his mind that his name could be uttered in such a naked, shrinking way.  
  
He looked intently at his guest for a few minutes. Some instinct told him that it would be fitting to slide shut the door behind him.  
  
Matsumoto looked surprised, squirmed, and colored even more.  
  
Seeing that, he smiled and stepped forward. Perhaps he had not miscalculated, after all.  
  
“Matsumoto-san.” He let a buoy of rich music enter his mild voice. “Let me keep you company tonight.”  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	4. Chapter 4

The night was deepening like a chasm between them, the air static and the moon fixed like a brittle saucer in a haze of summer sky. Restlessly, Jun tapped his finger on the seat of his chair. He had no idea how long they had been just _sitting_ there, Ohno with his finger curled around a teacup and he fiddling with his laptop, trying not to act self-conscious as he pretended to be working.  
  
“Are you busy?” Ohno had asked him. Jun had been so surprised that he could only nod in response, hoping that his host would leave him in his agitated privacy, but Ohno had simply hummed and taken a seat, polite as you please, and offered him some tea. The resulting silence that stretched beyond that was punctuated only by Jun turning on his computer and typing aimlessly into the keypad. There were only so many times one could type “Sakurai Sho has pineapples for brains,” though, and it wasn’t long before he found his eyes straying again to his intruder from under the shade of his lashes.  
  
Ohno’s gaze met him straight on. Jun blinked, taken aback by their intensity.  
  
The lips curled up as if pleased by his attention, but they didn’t speak. _Why doesn’t he speak?_ Jun paused on his keyboard, internally as flapped as a piece of whipped cowhide.  
  
“Was there anything in particular you wanted with me?” he asked, when it was impossible to ignore Ohno’s attention any longer.  
  
The man smiled lightly. “Just wanted to see if what Nino said was true.”  
  
“Nino?” _That rascal._ Jun bit his tongue. “What’d he say?”  
  
“Oh, just that every midnight, your make-up wears off,” Ohno shrugged, his eyes twinkling crescents.  “And you turn into a big grousing ogre, unfit for human contact.”  
  
He took a neat sip of his tea as Jun colored, the thin metaphor not at all lost between them. Jun wanted to say something, to justify and account for what Ohno had clearly overheard, but nothing would come out his mouth.  
  
Ohno continued to smile. There was no trace of blame in his face. A few seconds passed, and with horror, Jun realized that unless he made a better effort to keep the conversation alive, he was going to be in real danger of having to pretend-type a new string of Sakurai insults into his laptop again.  
  
“This… is a very lovely design.”  
  
Rather oafishly, he gestured at that painted paper fan he’d received on his first day, inwardly groaning as soon as the words came out. God, this was awful, but he couldn’t believe how _awkward_ he was being! It was like the very presence of Ohno Satoshi sapped him of the ability to even _talk_. He, the eloquent award-winning Matsumoto Jun!  
  
Well, at least the offending man himself seemed blithely oblivious to all social signals of discomfit and was merely blinking curiously at the fan he was setting before him.  
  
“Nino said you painted it,” Jun added, cursing his own breathlessness.  
  
“This?” Ohno peered down at the folded paper. Hastily, Jun spread it out for him to view. “Ah, yes,” he smiled, recognition dawning in his eyes. “A few years ago, I made it for my father.”  
  
The conversation then turned to art, and Jun was relieved to find how talkative his host became once the topic turned to the various artists of their generation. Suddenly gone was the absent-minded craftsman, and in his place, there sat a thoughtful critic, his honeyed eyes gleaming and his deft fingers reverent as they pulled dusty portfolio tomes from a hidden shelf on the desk.  He had to show Jun the fantastical figures of Nara Yoshitomo—mark how they grimaced, see how they glared? And yet look closely at their lips and the glisten of their eyes, could Jun see it? The little shadow that betrayed their melancholy, the little dust of dreams that had flown just out of their reach?  
  
He looked at Jun, expectant. Dumbly, Jun nodded.  
  
 _He certainly beats all the art critics_ , he thought, staring as the craftman’s fingers caressed the art, bamboo dregs still clotted under its nails.  
  
 _Hell, forget art critics. He beats half the pretentious dicks in circles of what they call_ artists _these days._  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It was four in the morning when Ninomiya woke, his narrow chest soaked and heart racing wildly after a particularly vivid dream. He blinked, getting used to the dim light. How odd. He was alone in Satoshi’s bed. There was no light on in the bathroom, and the blue apron that normally hung behind the door was missing. Uneasily, he sat up, drawing the covers up around himself so that he could hunch over unexposed.  
  
He told Satoshi he rarely got his childhood nightmares anymore, but it wasn’t strictly true. Every once in a while, his unruly mind would wander the unspeakable paths to the past, and he’d see again the towering waves, houses splintering like plywood, trees afloat in the flood. He’d hear the cries, of gulls, of dogs, of desperately waving limbs poking out of the water. Thankfully, he hadn’t personally seen his parents claimed by the waves back then. They had been farther downtown in his grandfather’s store selling windshield wipers. No witnesses ever provided an account of their final moments. That part of town had been completely demolished, and all Nino ever got was a haunting silence after it was over. It was so very like the silence of a dead lampless night.  
  
He shivered despite his blanket. Where was Satoshi? It had been long since he thrashed or yelled in his sleep, but Satoshi still spooned him at night like he was a little boy. Of course, it wasn’t like he _needed_ his young master or anything, but Nino was a creature of habit, and Satoshi was such an undemanding one to maintain.  
  
In the past, Satoshi used to get up early to paint. Nino never asked him where or why, or even _what_ he painted, but over the years, the name Nara Yoshitomo had trickled out and wedged itself into an obscure corner of his mind. He was that _other friend of Satoshi’s_ , the painter with whom he shared his art in the dark of those lampless nights, the other half of their unnamed duo that sprayed eerie graffiti under abandoned bridges and railroad tracks. Sometimes, Nino thought that they must have been in love. Why else would they always meet under cover of nightfall, with so much to share and so little to tell? But then, Nara had shocked the town by disinheriting himself of the local Nara cake shop and running away to Tokyo to paint inserts for children’s books. And Satoshi had only smiled at the news.  
  
 _“Nara-san is very brave,”_ he had told Nino. _“I think he’ll make it on his own.”_  
  
He never went out for early paintings again, and Nino got his familiar warm spoon back every morning. It was a good thing, Nino thought secretly, that Satoshi was too blockheaded to fall in love with anyone.  
  
Though who knew? If someone else was blockheaded enough to fall for Satoshi (and that cantankerous Matsumoto quickly came to mind, Nino smirked), then perhaps he should look more seriously into investing in one of those self-heating body pillows.  
  
Daintily, he slipped out of bed, the blankets still wrapped around his shoulders, and peeked out the bedroom door. Maybe Satoshi had gone to visit his father. He sometimes did that early in the morning before the bamboos woke up, and these days, Nino wouldn’t blame him for wanting to go more frequently.  
  
 _It’s nearing the end, after all._  
  
There was a faint glow down the hall. It was coming from the guest room. Was Matsumoto staying up late to finish his article? Curiously, Nino crept towards it, oddly comforted by the warm light. All was quiet, but as he got closer, he noticed something that made his eyebrows curve up.  
  
 _Satoshi’s slippers. What are they doing here?_  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Matsumoto opened his eyes. The morning was already humming with sounds of whittling and slicing from the workshop below. Groggily, he furrowed his brow, dimly recognizing the remnants of the night scattered around the room: a couple of teacups, half-thumbed portfolio books, a folded paper fan, gently placed by the head of his futon.  
  
How late had they been up last night? Jun ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up with a yawn. They hadn’t really done much, to tell the truth, just sat there and talked. Ohno could go on forever about the fiendish work of Nara Yoshitomo, that much was clear, but even after talk of art had been exhausted, they had stayed up, neither of them weary, and Jun had watched in strange contentment as Ohno gradually slouched back into his usual silence. The hands clasped naturally across his dirtied apron, and once again, he was Ohno the toothpick maker, with bamboo shavings in his hair and drying resin stuck to his nails.  
  
 _Ohno the toothpick maker._ Wryly, Jun picked up the fan and re-examined its painted folds.  
  
 _Perhaps not just a mere toothpick maker, after all._  
  
 _Thwack!_ There was a loud crack of a bamboo being split outside. Jumping, Jun took a look at his computer. The phone call with Sakurai came to mind and he turned away with distaste.  Not that they did much, but was what happened last night an example of the so-called _personal_ element?  
  
He nursed the question in his mind, remembering the way Ohno had perched on his pillow with both knees drawn up and an empty cup dangling off one hand, looking at him with curious—almost appraising—eyes.  
  
Was that what Sakurai wanted him to write about? Ohno’s eyes, the way they lit up at the mention of paintings, the way they looked at him as if committing the contours of his face to memory? Was he supposed to insert a paragraph here and there about how a gifted artist lurked beneath the mundane tasks of toothpick making? About how those hands were like magic, both on the knot of raw bamboos and on the curve of a man’s tense back?  
  
 _No fucking way._  
  
Matsumoto Jun was a tier one journalist, not a sappy novelist writing for _Housewives’ Digest_. He was all about the _objectives_ , not the sentiments, and certainly not personal sentiments between the subject and himself. Actually, he felt mildly disgusted that he was even considering such phrases in his draft. Hands like magic? Eyes like honey? _Next thing you know, I’ll be interviewing abandoned puppies and writing sob stories for network infomercials._  
  
Footsteps pattered up to his door, and he knew before the door even opened that it would be Ninomiya coming to fetch him to breakfast. Sure enough—  
  
“Matsumoto-san!” The shrill voice rang out, playful as always. “You’ve outslept yourself! Did Satoshi wear you out last night?”  
  
“Shut it,” Jun muttered as the door slid open. “Breakfast better be good.”  
  
“It’ll be even better if we eat out in the garden,” Nino tossed him a towel and gave a saucy wink. “Mating season just started.”  
  
Jun gave him a blood-chilling glare, but the impish grin didn’t fade and instead, only widened with those round blinking eyes.  
  
“For the _birds_ ,” Nino clarified, very innocently.  
  
Jun swept right past him, ears flaming.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	5. Chapter 5

To hell with the birds. It was all about the location. The garden was uncomfortably close to Ohno Satoshi’s workshop, and Jun was really beginning to marvel at how smoothly that rascal Ninomiya had plotted his mortification. With every sip of coffee, he could taste the fresh-shorn bamboo in the air, and with every smack his chopsticks, he could hear the absent humming of the craftsman merrily at work just a few feet away.  
  
“Satoshi’ll come out around ten to lay the toothpicks out to dry.” Nino was lounging back in his chair with a devious twinkle in his eye. “I daresay you’ll want to observe.”  
  
Jun’s soup stopped mid gulp down his throat, but he managed to hold a dignified silence.  
  
“For my _article_ ,” he swallowed, internally cursing Nino’s perceptiveness. “It’ll be a great photo op. In fact, excuse me, I think I’ll go in and grab my camera right now.”  
  
He could not escape that smirking grin fast enough.  
  
When he finally rounded back to the garden with his camera in hand, it was already a little past ten. The plates had been cleared, the tables wiped, and in the little clearing between rows of shrubbery, a familiar figure was already standing, the fine bronze musculature straining against a cartload of bamboo sieves, the tight back rippling boldly under a proud midday sun.  
  
 _Oh dear god…_ was the most coherent thought that came to the award-winning journalist’s mind. With a soft thump, his camera bag fell upon the grass, unheard and unheeded.  
  
Something else moved in the shrubbery, and Jun saw that Nino was still there too, his complexion much paler by comparison and half his head swathed (rather hideously) in a grey hooded towel. He wasn’t doing any of the heavy lifting, but Jun noticed that every now and then, he’d pick a handful of toothpicks out of a sieve and hold each one up to eye level for inspection. Often, he’d just snort and throw the lot back, but whenever it seemed like he found a defective one, he’d bark something out to Ohno, and the toothpick maker would stop to return a guilty smile before resuming the arduous pull of the cart.  
  
Then Nino said something, and it must have been unrelated to the quality of their toothpicks, because Ohno suddenly stopped in his steps with his back to his companion, both hands still on the cart handles and his back very stiff and upright. Nino seemed to soften (much to Jun’s surprise) and actually hesitated before stepping forth to hand him a slip of paper. Ohno was still as he perused it, but his expression when he finally turned around to hand it back to Nino was unreadable, and for the first time since meeting him, Jun thought that Nino actually looked _worried_.  
  
Wordlessly, Ohno was picking up the cart handles again, ready to continue his labor, but Nino put a hand on his arm and said something else, this time with a sharper expression on his face.  
  
Jun stared, rooted to his spot, as Ohno slowly turned around.  
  
The honeyed eyes caught him immediately in their flame, locking him in a shield of both weariness and longing. Jun had never noticed it before, but Ohno Satoshi had eyes that were more than just warm; under the glare of sunlight, they had a bite in them that could rival the finest diamond cutters in their keenness.  
  
Awkwardly, he nodded in greeting. Ohno blinked and turned away.  
  
And it took Nino only a swift half second to catch up to their silent exchange. The troubled frown was at once obliterated by a grin, and hastily he stuffed away the mysterious note (which Ohno had crinkled beyond recognition), waving merrily instead to Jun.  
  
“Matsumoto-san!” he called out, the tease seamlessly back in his voice. “What took you so long? Satoshi’s just about ready for his close-up.”  
  
Behind him, Ohno stood still, the only movement a bare hint of perspiration gleaming on his chest.  
  
“Manners, Kazu.” His eyes were wryly fixed on the approaching Jun. “Matsumoto-san here is already red enough without a burn, I think.”  
  
Nino chuckled as Jun dropped his camera, yet again.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
At five o’clock, the sun started dipping, and Matsumoto Jun recapped the elaborate lens of his camera. He had just skimmed through the digital memory on the tiny LCD screen, and all the photos had looked stunning. Ohno Satoshi was as photogenic as they came, the light scar on his cheek and faint weariness around the eyes giving him just that sense of authenticity that Jun rarely found in the parliamentary subjects he usually shadowed. For the entire day, Jun had hovered in Ohno’s bamboo workshop, silently snapping pictures as the man plied his craft. He had captured Ohno’s concentrated zeal as he peered down a stick of bamboo; he had seen how the lips would thin and purse as splinters pricked through the skin. Once or twice, he had even managed to steal a shot of an absent chuckle, with those cheekbones raised high and tiny dimples dotting the small mouth.  
  
It was puzzling, really, how childish Ohno was in his dedication to his craft; in fact, Jun would almost say that he was _downright_ _silly_ in some ways, smiling over those nondescript little toothpicks and testing their sharp points with the pad of his finger like he had just fashioned butterflies from spider silk.  
  
 _And butterfly wings would probably not be out of his abilities, either. Yet somehow it’s toothpicks he chooses to make._  
  
Sighing with something akin to regret, Jun put down the camera and looked exasperatedly over at where the craftsman was still hunched over his messy workbench. His slender hands were speeding back and forth with a thin metal shaver, and in between them a new splinter was quickly taking the shape of a sharpened pick. Jun took a seat beside him and cleared his throat.  
  
“You know that a machine could do this in a quarter of the time you do, right?” He watched as the skillful hands slowed, and a mildly bemused face turned towards him.  
  
“I suppose so.” Ohno shrugged.  
  
“And you know that machines would cost about a fraction of what you cost, right?” Jun pressed on, not comprehending how Ohno could be shrugging about something as critical as his livelihood.  
  
“They are more efficient,” Ohno agreed readily, flicking some debris off his shaver.  
  
“And you don’t find that worrisome at all?” Jun reached over and stopped him by the wrist. All day, he had been wondering why an imaginative man like Ohno Satoshi was wasting his talents on sharpening bamboo splinters in this backwater town. “Don’t you ever wonder what you could be doing if you made more than just… toothpicks?”  
  
Ohno looked thoughtful for a moment, and then gently disengaged his hand.  
  
“No.” He smiled at Jun’s disbelief. “I decided on toothpicks a long time ago, Matsumoto-san. And I’m _happy_.”  
  
“That makes no sense,” retorted Jun, somewhat indignant now. “You’re an artist! You have everything it takes to be an artist!” He steadied his breath and looked intently into Ohno’s unembellished face. “Satoshi-san, have you even thought about how big you could be if you just _tried_?”  
  
“Mm.” Ohno smiled again, though this time a well seemed to deepen in his eyes, rich and guarded with impenetrable musing. “I suppose there were a few people who liked my folding fans.”  
  
“A few?” Jun almost laughed. “With your talent, you could be designing a lot more than just paper fans, Satoshi-san! You could be walking in the same circles as your beloved Nara-san; perhaps you could even get to meet him.” He patted Ohno’s shoulder, not noticing how rigid it had suddenly gotten, and continued with some warmth. “Modesty will only hold you back, Satoshi-san!”  
  
He looked at Ohno expectantly, waiting to see that same excitement of the night before return to his face, but the tanned brow only tightened, and the deep eyes withdrew even more.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Ohno said quietly. “I’m really not like Nara-san.”  
  
He turned back to the half-done bamboo on his table and deftly skinned the remaining green off its body, paying no attention to Jun’s sputtering face two feet away.  
  
“There’s art in this, too,” he explained gently. “It’s harder to see because it lives for just a few seconds in between someone’s teeth, but it’s there. I made it.” He paused and gave the finished bamboo a fond poke before continuing right over Jun’s look of confusion. “Matsumoto-san is kind to believe in me, but I’m really only a toothpick maker. I don’t do much else.”  
  
“Nino said you made beautiful wood carvings.” Jun couldn’t help the accusatory tone. It hurt—it really did—to hear Ohno deny himself of his talent (even though he was also feeling just a tad humbled for his dismissal of the man’s toothpick making profession earlier).  
  
“Those are not talents,” Ohno chuckled softly, wiping his hands on his apron. “They’re just proof that I’m bad at saying thank you. To people in general, and Kazu in particular.” He surveyed Jun more solemnly and gestured towards an intricate bamboo flute sitting like a king on the drying rack. “People always seem to understand me better without words, anyways.”  
  
 _So you make things to avoid saying things._ Jun had never met anyone with this philosophy, not in the journalist crowd, not in the artist crowd, and most certainly not in the very vocal politician crowd. Once again, he found himself tongue-tied, slightly embarrassed that he’d even thought to tempt the man with crass things like fame and wealth; it was so clear Ohno was already happy without any of it.  
  
“Well…” He cleared his throat, trying (and failing) to ignore the affectionate way Ohno had just said Ninomiya’s name. “Did you make that for Nino, then?” He pointed with his chin to the flute. “It must have been a lot of work.”  
  
He hoped he didn’t sound as jealous as he felt.  
  
“Mmhmm,” Ohno hummed an affirmative syllable and continued to work. “Kazu likes making music.”  
  
 _So do a lot of people!_ Jun didn’t know where the urgency in that thought came from; he was only glad he didn’t blurt it out loud. Instead, he looked down and tweaked the knobs on his camera, his brain whirring rapidly on ways to interpret this nebulous relationship between craftsman and servant.  
  
“You two grew up together, didn’t you?” he asked.  
  
“We did.” Ohno nodded absently.  
  
“Well, you seem very close.” He just couldn’t let the topic go. “I mean, for a boss and an employee.”  
  
At that, Ohno stopped and shot him a strange look. “Kazu’s my _brother_ ,” he said with just the barest hint of affront. “My parents adopted him when I was ten.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Jun covered his mouth. He had never been more mortified in his life. “I had no idea. God, that explains so much…”  
  
“Like what?” Ohno was still staring at him with that piercing quality in his eyes. It flustered Jun to no end, making him stammer and blush like that embarrassing first day in the bath.  
  
“Nothing really… Just, well, you know, your intimacies, like with the bath and the names and… I mean… your personalities are so completely _different,_ I just wondered, you know… if—”  
  
“If opposites attract?” Ohno’s eyes were now more amused than stern, and he was wearing the beginnings of an alarmingly Nino-like smirk on his face. Jun gulped, feeling naked all of a sudden. “You really are naïve, Matsumoto-san.”  
  
A hand came up to cup his flaming cheek, still fresh with the scent of bamboo.  
  
“Haven’t you noticed the way I look at you?”  
  
Jun’s eyes widened. “ _What—?”_  
  
But the lips that followed effectively obliterated all thought, and within seconds, Matsumoto’s breath had flown like a ragged leaf on the wind as Ohno Satoshi tilted, arched, and finally claimed him with a kiss.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~


	6. Chapter 6

Breakfast the next day was full of furtive looks (on Nino’s part) and secret giggles (on Jun’s part). It was with undisguised smugness that Jun watched the lid on Nino’s proverbial kettle finally pop, and the question those boyish lips were _dying_ to ask finally shot out like a jet of pressurized steam.  
  
“Two nights in a row?” Ninomiya didn’t even try to hide his amazement. “Your virtue is under serious question, Matsumoto-san.”  
  
“And you’re worried?” Jun smiled cryptically, helping himself to Nino’s eggs. “It was just a kiss, Nino.”  
  
“He _kissed_ you?” Nino’s hand stopped mid-snatch as he tried to reclaim his plate, but he recovered almost instantly and instead bent over to steal Jun’s milk  
  
“Well, congratulations,” he grunted. “Guess that shy maiden’s blush worked its magic at last.”  
  
Jun was just about to retort that it was _Ohno_ who seduced _him_ when the man in question himself came yawning right through the kitchen door like a vision from a dream, his hair still wet from morning labor and a scent of bamboo scent clouding his slouched form.  
  
“Good morning.” Ohno Satoshi’s voice was stretched by his yawn, but his eyes quickly forgot any lack of sleep as they met the startled expression in Jun’s.  
  
“Matsumoto-san,” he smiled, and it was vexingly clear that he was remembering how their lips and tongues had mingled like kneaded dough last night. “I hope I didn’t disturb you last night.”  
  
“No, you were fine. I mean, I slept just fine. But you know…” Where was all the nonchalance with which he had just been sparring Nino? Jun could feel the heat creeping back into his cheeks and his voice shrinking down into mere air as he looked up to find Ohno standing right beside him.  
  
“I thought we agreed that it would be _‘Jun’_ from now on,” he finished in a small mutter.  
  
 _“‘Jun?’_ ” Nino echoed, his voice up by a good octave. “Is this for real?”  
  
His eyes sought Ohno’s, which were fixed in all their sensual reminiscence on Jun, and they followed along as an absent-minded hand made its way up to Jun’s face, brushing a tousle of hair from his smooth cheeks.  
  
“We like each other,” Ohno shrugged. “He has nice lips.”  
  
Nino looked like he was legitimately going to barf.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Like always, Jun spent most of the day writing his new draft, but at the end of the afternoon, it was with considerably less resentment that he opened his email and wrote a quick note to update Sakurai on his progress.  
  
 _“All’s going well. Learned more about Ohno Satoshi and his personal interest in toothpick crafting. Here’s another 5000 words for the article. Let me know what you think—MJ.”_  
  
He paused, one hand hovering over the send button, before letting out an unexpected laugh—“Oh, might as well!”—and typing one more line into the message window:  
  
 _“Thank you for this wonderful project.”_  
  
Message sent.  
  
He leaned back and crossed both hands leisurely behind his head. The chair squeaked on the hardwood floor, but that barely bothered him anymore. The day was done, and he was quite prepared to sink into his fluffy futon and sleep with his head in his pillow until dawn.  
  
 _Satoshi-san should be done with his toothpicks soon_. He didn’t even try to stifle the excitement that coursed through his body at that thought. Throughout the day, Ohno had been rather attentive to him despite their separate work environments, often shuffling into his room with bamboo shavings still clinging to his apron and a warm, almost hungry, gleam in his honeyed eyes. He didn’t say much, but Jun had learned to look into his face and read all the unspoken thoughts through touch and little gestures.  
  
All these little squeezes and pats, light smiles and kisses… They had held him mesmerized in the summer heat, glowing in the depth of Ohno’s affection, which—now that he could see it—was _unmistakable_ and intense, buoyed by a hidden power he had never felt in anyone else. He wondered how he could have missed it before; the silent eyes smoothing over the contours of his face, the faint smile curving up whenever he flushed at a remark from Nino, and the hands—of all things, how could he have missed the hands?— they were always just an arm’s length away, ready to provide him a fan when it was hot, or to rub energy into his back when the stiff floors got to his muscles. They were such pretty hands, really, so skillful, and so ready to show him how much they loved touching him, but he had been too blind to notice them before.  
  
A sigh escaped his lips, and he snuggled gladly down into his futon. _We like each other_ , Ohno had said. It was so simple, and yet how it changed things now that it had been said out loud! Softly, Jun laughed under the covers _. Why couldn’t I say it myself that first day I met him?_  
  
A loud digital noise cut through the hazy air, and slightly annoyed, Jun dragged himself out of his warm cocoon to pluck his phone from its charger. The caller ID flashed a bright string of characters: _Election Correspondent – Level 3._  
  
 _Oh shit!_  
  
Jun was up at once, the phone at his ear and excitement of a familiar—and entirely less tender—kind flooding through him in waves.  
  
“Hello?” he answered breathlessly. “This is Matsumoto.”  
  
“Hey, MatsuJun?” The voice on the other end was one he’d heard many times before, low, pressured and zealously secretive. Tonight, the juice of a scoop was practically dripping through the earpiece. “Listen pal, I can’t talk for long because I’m doing this behind your boss’s back, but I got a big thing for you. _Big._ So listen up.”  
  
“I’m listening.” Jun’s heart was already pounding, preparing to hold on to every word.  
  
“That old Ogura, you remember him? That ancient DPJ frontrunner who secretly hospitalized himself for some unknown illness last year? Yeah, I know, I know, he won’t talk about it and everyone’s been writing him off as a massive heart attack just waiting to happen, but get this! His campaign just private-lined me, said they wanted an exclusive with our station, and _PR dropped hints about hospital records_!”  
  
“You’re kidding!” Jun felt his breath tighten, his brain already whirring with the possible implications of this news. Ogura had been immensely popular before the hospitalization scandal, with even support in all age groups, solid policies on both domestic and foreign fronts and an affable manner that scored him major points on every likeability poll they had conducted. Jun himself had been thinking of voting for the old man, but then rumors of his declining health had caught on like wildfire and when his secret hospitalization was pulled to light by the opposition, the numbers dropped like bullets into Tokyo Bay. But now…  
  
“You’re not talking about a mid-primary comeback,” Jun breathed out, every sense suddenly alive and anticipatory.  
  
“Oh, but I am, my friend, I am. Trust me, that old fox has got something up his sleeve, and it’s going to be one hell of an exclusive coming up.” Correspondent Level 3’s chuckles crackled over the phone, but it was nothing compared to the rush of adrenaline that had just permeated all every journalist instinct in Matsumoto Jun’s body.  
  
 _The chase is back on_ , he grinned, grabbing a pen and beginning to scribble a host of unintelligible notes. “You haven’t told Sakurai about this, have you?” he asked.  
  
“Of course not.” The voice on the phone scoffed. “I know what’s been going on with him and that dandy Aiba behind the scenes. This is a favor I’m doing you, MatsuJun. I mean, Aiba’s a good reporter, but he doesn’t have even a fraction of the hunger you have, and it kills me to see you getting ousted just because that picnic basket Sakurai’s taken a shine to his cock.”  
  
“Oh, well, er… thank you.” For some reason, Jun wasn’t sure how to respond. Three weeks ago, he’d have relished the compliment and taken unabashed glee in any effort to undermine his rival, but something within him was now prickling in his throat, and he found himself struggling to join the snicker at his unwitting boss’s expense. Sakurai _had_ in effect set him up with Ohno, after all. And as much as Jun valued professionalism in the workplace, he was beginning to see just how devastatingly the presence of a single person could blur the lines of work and play.  
  
Awkwardly, he scratched his nose. “When do you want me to be there?” he asked.  
  
“In two days,” the voice answered promptly. “Wear a nice tie. We’ll have cameras ready.”  
  
“ _Two days?!_ ” A screeching unwillingness suddenly flooded his consciousness. How the hell could he leave in two days? He was just barely finishing up his assignment on Ohno, and Ohno was only just beginning to suggest that they should perhaps start sharing— _Ahem!_ A strangled noise escaped him, and Jun reddened behind the fortunate barrier of his phone. _Thank god_ , he looked up in silent prayer. The end of that thought would have spelled certain disaster for his professional image. Rankled, he rolled his tongue around his teeth. Why did thoughts of Ohno always have this effect on him? This inexplicable melting effect that made his tongue soften like putty in his mouth?  
  
“Hey, is there a problem?” The voice on the line sounded both impatient ad slightly puzzled.  
  
Jun snapped back to his senses. “No! Not at all!” he said hastily, ignoring the sinking weight that was currently making its way down his gut. “I…I’ll be there. Count me in.”  
  
“You _are_ in, but just a word to the wise, MatsuJun…” The voice paused before finally heaving a sigh. “You know I can’t keep Sakurai in the dark forever.”  
  
A nerve in Jun’s body pinched itself like a piece of twine between scorpion claws.  
  
“So if I can’t make it?” he asked, the weight in his stomach now hitting rock bottom.  
  
“I’ll have no choice but to let him give it to Aiba,” said the voice heavily.  
  
It was with unprecedented low energy that Matsumoto Jun finally tapped the “end call” button and flopped back into his futon, flinging his phone onto a mess of dirty laundry.  
  
 _Maybe it’s not a big deal. I’m sure Satoshi-san would understand._  
  
Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head and willed himself into an uncomfortable sleep.  
  
One hour later, that warm voice that had undone him so many times called softly into his dark room.  
  
“Jun?”  
  
Unsteadily, he turned around, watching as the slender hands peeled an apron off the toned silhouette and hung it neatly on a hook behind his door. Ohno’s eyes were hidden in shadow, but his body approached and hovered over Jun like a gentle, sturdy oak. A warm breeze ruffled the hair over Jun’s eyes, and it was only when he blinked them open with a flutter that he realized it wasn’t a breeze, but rather a warm breath tickling his bare forehead.  
  
“May I?”  
  
The bamboo scent enveloped him fondly, and without a word Jun nodded. His heart was pounding and hot sweat was suddenly sticking to his clenched palms under the blankets _._  
  
 _I want him_ , he realized with a shudder, a big, mortifying but paradoxically exhilarating shudder. _Tonight. Right now. I want him to do more than just kiss._  
  
“Jun?” Satoshi lifted his head from where his lips had just made fresh marks of possession on Jun’s. There was incomprehension in his honeyed eyes as they fell on Jun’s hands digging into his buttocks, trying doggedly to divest him of his thin shorts and boxers. “Is something wrong?”  
  
“Oh for mercy’s sake, don’t look at me like that,” Jun groaned, rolling up and pinning the toothpick maker down on his pillow. “You always make it impossible for me speak.”  
  
Ohno Satoshi stared mutely as Jun tugged away and finally uncovered his naked hardness.  
  
“We like each other,” Jun whispered into his neck. “So why not?”  
  
Their eyes locked once again, honey-gold against clouded black, before the very night seemed to recede and a warm blanket flipped up to trap Satoshi in that tight space occupied by Matsumoto’s bare body.  
  
 _Kiss me again_ , challenged Jun’s eyes, a mere inch away from his face.  
  
 _With pleasure_ , he obliged, feeling a deep rush as their bodies connected, both at the lips and down below.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	7. Chapter 7

“Kazu?”  
  
There was a grunt of reply from within, so carefully, Ohno entered his adoptive brother’s room, a plainly wrapped box tucked under one arm. It was odd that Nino was even present in his own room; most of the time, he could be more easily found lounging in front of the TV or lazing with both feet up on Satoshi’s drawing desk. That he had retired so soon after breakfast today was rather uncharacteristic, Ohno thought as he stepped over a pile of dirty laundry.  
  
“This is for you.” He held out the box, hastily affixing a small card to its surface. “Happy birthday.”  
  
He smiled as the wrapping paper was shed and the intricate bamboo flute he had so lovingly crafted was lifted out from its case, but Nino’s lips were pursed as he looked down at his gift.  
  
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked tartly. “Play a dirge?”  
  
 _No, Kazu._ Ohno shook his head, his smile fading wistfully. He wasn’t worried. He knew it always took Nino a few days to appreciate his intentions. Patiently, he patted the hunched shoulders.  
  
“Today’s your birthday,” he said evenly. “Let’s not ruin the mood.”  
  
“So you don’t think it was cruel of him?” Nino was blinking obstinately. “To choose the day right after my birthday. 100 days… He couldn’t have chosen another number?”  
  
Nino was blinking awfully quickly now. Sighing, Ohno took the flute out of his hands and placed it safely back in its case.  It wasn’t Nino’s fault, he knew. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. These things happened as a part of life, and Nino was just unlucky that he’d have to lose two fathers in the course of his.  
  
He let his eyes linger a little longer on the fine sheen of the flute. He knew Nino hated it when others caught him crying.  
  
“The dementia,” he said gently. “He barely had two lucid intervals after being intubated. We were grateful he chose to give us as long as 100 days, remember?”  
  
There was a choking noise and Nino turned to face the window, one stubby hand mopping across his eyes. Of course, Ohno knew better than to look, so they simply stood like that for a good minute or two, and when Nino had finally composed himself again, he turned back to Ohno’s slouching form.  
  
“He would have been happy, you know, to see you and Matsumoto.”  
  
Ohno looked at him sharply, but Nino’s eyes bore only a sad smile. “I was hoping that we’d have at least something nice to show him when the time came. That note… he really wanted to see a son-in-law, you know.” The little mark on his chin wiggled, and for a moment, Ohno saw a hint of that smirk he was so used to. “You did it with Jun last night, didn’t you?”  
  
Now if there was one thing Ohno knew, it was that hiding anything from Nino was impossible and would only result in pain and trouble multiplied by the dozen-fold down the line, so wisely, he nodded.  
  
“You _dog!_ ” Nino slapped him on the back, a shadow of his playful self tumbling out in a laugh before his eyes sobered back to their mournful darkness. “Well, at least that pretty boy will have something to remember you by.”  
  
Ohno frowned. Was Matsumoto leaving? But just the night before, they had…  
  
“He got a phone call,” Nino explained, reading the question in his face. Unlike Ohno, Ninomiya was perfectly unscrupulous when it came to eavesdropping. “I think there’s some big exclusive on one of the candidates happening tomorrow evening, and they’re offering him the interview.”  
  
“Oh.” Ohno hadn’t heard any mention of it. Suddenly, he felt almost _hurt_. He had spent all night holding Jun in his arms, and not one word? He looked at Nino inquiringly.  
  
“Did he say if he would be coming back?” He would assume based on their activity last night that Jun should want to see him again, but a new sense of disquiet was now niggling at the corners of his mind. He supposed he should have given this more thought to begin with. Hadn’t Sho-kun written that his reporter was only going to be staying for three weeks? And come to think of it, why would Jun have any reason to spend more time in his toothpick shop, anyways? He had a whole career in Tokyo to tend to, after all.  
  
Nino shrugged sympathetically. “Sorry, I couldn’t really tell.”  
  
“Perhaps it’ll be better if he stays away for a while.” Musingly, Ohno fingered the sharp edge of the table. “I haven’t told him about Father.”  
  
"You haven't? But Satoshi-"  
  
"It'll be fine." He raised a hand to still Nino's protests.  
  
“Tomorrow will be just for us,” he said. “You and me, with Father.”  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
 _Another 5000 words complete._  
  
Stretching both arms like a giant bat, Matsumoto Jun stood up from the hard stool he had been sitting at for the past three hours and gave a grimace of satisfaction. At least now, his article was all but finished, with only Sakurai’s final comments pending, and Jun was sure that _this_ time, his boss was going to find his work much more agreeable.  
  
 _It’s Satoshi I’m writing about, after all._  
  
Guiltily, Jun looked at the half-packed suitcase sitting on the floor. Only a few hours ago, Ohno had been sleeping inches from where it lay, his sun-stroked face nestled calmly on a pillow hugged to his chest while Jun fretted silently beside him, the morning chill raising goosebumps on his naked skin.  
  
He hadn’t told Ohno about the phone call.  
  
All night, there had been so much time, so many opportunities once Ohno had spent his passion inside of him (at the very thought, Jun shivered, evidence of their tryst still tingling fresh in his boxers). All he had had to do was explain. Why had it even been hard? Matsumoto Jun was usually exceptional at explaining, and he was quite certain that the soft gentle Ohno— _his_ soft gentle Ohno—would’ve been willing to understand, too.  
  
 _The words just wouldn’t come._  
  
Frustrated, he took a swig of cold tea and decided to find Nino for some decent food.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The sounds of low voices arguing reached him before he even approached the door.  
  
“—completely daft, you idiot! You’ve already given it up once, when you let Nara Yoshitomo slip through your fingers with your dreams in his portfolio. I’m not going to stand by and watch you do this to yourself again.”  
  
“Nara didn’t slip through, Kazu. I let him go.” Ohno’s voice was patiently even.  
  
“Same difference,” growled Nino, and Jun heard a churlish slam of fist on wood. “He never even _mentioned_ you afterwards. After all that talk about shared visions and dream exhibits, he never even wrote back to _thank_ you!”  
  
“I told him not to,” said Ohno, and there was a rustle of feet moving across wooden floor. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and pensive. “It would have been too hard, I thought. Father was just starting to forget, and you were only sixteen, Kazu...”  
  
Jun held his breath as that familiar bamboo scent passed close to the bedroom door. On the other side, Nino gave an exasperated sigh.  
  
“It’s always me and Father,” he said. “Do we really weigh on your conscience that much?”  
  
“I’m not like Nara, Kazu.” There was a smile in Ohno’s voice.  
  
“Well, neither is Matsumoto!” Nino retorted, and Jun almost jumped at the sudden mention of his name. What did he have to do with this mysterious past between Ohno and Nara? “Nara wouldn’t stay for you and you refused to go with him, but that crabby journalist you’ve just taken to bed has been watching you with eyes that practically thaw into puddles of sap every time you walk into a room.” He snorted, and Jun could just imagine the disdainful look on his face. “Even a dead log could see how doomed that poor man is.”  
  
Ohno did not answer, and between them stretched a silence that pulsated to the wild hammering of Jun’s heart.  
  
“You’re just going to let him go, then?” Nino asked finally, a hard chill in his voice Jun had never heard before. “You’re not even going to ask him if he wants to return?”  
  
There was another long pause, and then Ohno’s voice came quietly, “Would you ever ask me to give up my workshop?”  
  
Now it was Nino’s turn to be silent. Through a crack in the door, Jun could just barely see the boyish head with a knotted towel round the neck, biting his lower lip with doubt.  
  
“Then what right do you think I have to ask the same of Jun?” Gently, Ohno patted one of Nino’s stubby fists and turned to pick something up from a chair behind him, very briefly facing the unlatched bedroom door.  
  
Their eyes met for a split second. Sun-flecked honey against startled obsidian.  
  
And suddenly, it hit Jun. Like a toothpick through his gut, it finally hit him. Why the countryside had suddenly become bearable and the lack of air conditioning actually pleasant, why the pink loved his face so much and the smug grin never left Nino’s, why a small tub now felt empty with nothing but him and water steaming to the brim… Why every expressive faculty he was so proud of could be robbed at a single touch from Ohno’s fingers. Why the words _just wouldn’t come._  
  
Ardently, defenselessly, and _irrevocably_ , Matsumoto Jun was in love.  
  
 _And there’s no way I’m leaving here for even a second._  
  
Staunchly, he cleared his throat and with one firm hand, pushed open the bedroom door.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
“I’m not leaving you, Satoshi-san.”  
  
Ohno stared, wide-eyed, as the fingers of Matsumoto Jun held up a pristine train ticket and with one crisp tear, ripped it cleanly in two.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me your father was dying?”  
  
When had Jun’s voice gotten so forceful? Ohno frowned. Where was that blush, that self-conscious frustration that usually hung on that face? Beside him, Nino gave an exclamation of surprise.  
  
“Matsumoto! What are you doing here?”  
  
“Looking for lunch,” answered Jun coolly. “Though I seem to have found something a lot more pressing than my appetite.”  
  
The words were directed at Nino, but it was Ohno his eyes spoke to and Ohno for whom his question burned unanswered in the breezy summer air. They were so alike, Jun and his father; Ohno thought it was almost _cruel_ that such a man should have entered his life right when his father was about to leave it.  
  
“Father would have liked you,” he told Jun. “But he wouldn’t have remembered you five minutes after you left his room.”  
  
He sighed and pieced together the torn train ticket, one finger tracing that dent in the middle where Jun’s thumb had pressed into the paper. Jun’s place was back in Tokyo, he reminded himself. There were things waiting for him there, important people to interview, important ratings to achieve, important awards to win... Content as he was, what could he offer Jun here? Ohno looked back at the man pensively. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nino frowning.  
  
“Don’t miss your train tomorrow,” he said softly.  
  
Jun shook his head, resolute.   
  
“I told you, I’m not going,” he insisted firmly. “It’s only an interview. Aiba will be able to handle it better than me, anyways.”  
  
“Really?” Ohno raised a brow. _That_ was a rather big change in tune. But Jun only smiled.  
  
“Aiba has no mourning lover to comfort, after all.” The smile got wider, and Ohno blinked as Jun’s entire face inched close. “ _His_ heart lies safe in his chest.”  
  
Metaphors and roundabouts had never been Ohno’s strong suit, but this one seemed crystal clear as those dotted lips came even closer, close enough to steal the very breath from his throat. The dark eyes glittered, a flame in its depths, and it made him shiver pleasantly in the warm light of day.  
  
“And what about Jun’s?” he whispered, the answer already glowing in his mind.  
  
Wordlessly, Matsumoto took his hand and placed it gently against his chest. _Thu-thump. Thu-thump._ Ohno could feel his own heartbeat swell in a wave of indescribable emotion. The honeyed eyes turned back to where Jun was still smiling down at him and radiantly, like a gem filtering sunlight, he found himself laughing.  
  
 _It’s right here with you_ , Jun’s eyes were telling him as they both laughed into the summer air. _And don’t you even_ think _of chasing it away._  
  
“How about you kiss me again?”  
  
This time, it was Ohno who threw the challenge down into the shrinking sliver between their lips.  
  
Jun’s arms were already weaving a cocoon around his tense tingling body.  
  
“With pleasure,” he smiled.  
  
Behind them, Nino really looked like he was going to barf.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
END


End file.
